


Treading Water in the Wishing Well

by springdreaming



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anal Sex, First Time, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6309193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springdreaming/pseuds/springdreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sera has a plan to win Lavellan’s heart, and she needs Dorian’s help to do it. There’s just one problem -- she’s pretty sure Lavellan has her eyes on the Inquisition’s commander. Chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treading Water in the Wishing Well

**Author's Note:**

> Yoooo, have I mentioned how in love I am with this pairing? Because I am SO in love with this pairing. Like, I'm fairly sure that these two falling in love over and over again are the only thing I've been interested in for the past month or so. It's bad. Anyway, here we go again, with another cheesy, gratuitous Cullrian fic! Someone end me, seriously.
> 
> Title taken from lyrics to the song _Rich Youth_ by Hayley Kiyoko.

Dorian finds himself in a predicament. A very big, unwanted predicament. 

It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened. Generally speaking, this is just the sort of thing that happens to him all the time -- dragon attacks, attempted possession by fade demons, that business with the girl back home in Tevinter. Sometimes he thinks that it’s all just a conspiracy, that the universe chooses to throw these unsavory things at him because it thinks he can handle them, or more simply, just because it can. 

He’s in his quarters, sitting at his desk and poring over a manuscript on the hunting patterns of dragons written in ancient Tevene, when the arrow comes flying through his open window, whizzing straight past his head before lodging itself neatly in the wall behind him. It happens so fast that he barely manages a startled yelp, ducks so quickly that he nearly splits his forehead open on the top of the desk. No other arrows follow, though, so after a moment he gets up and crosses the room to take a closer look at it.

Upon inspection, he discovers a piece of paper tied around it, rolled tightly and wrapped with a red piece of ribbon. He pulls it free and opens it -- there’s a note that’s been scrawled, written in red ink in small, messy handwriting. 

_ I don’t play around. Or at least, not about this. There’s something I want, or should I say someone? Anyway, meet me on the top floor of the Herald’s Rest after dark, or I’ll put bees in your supper! _

The note is unsigned, but whoever wrote it has scribbled a drawing of what appears to be a bee sandwich. Dorian looks at it with a distasteful expression. He looks up, glancing outside the window. The sun is setting, the courtyard almost deserted, save for a few healers and Mother Giselle, made visible by her chantry attire and large red hat. The person who shot the arrow is long gone. 

His eyes dart to the pile of books on his desk, candle burning low and the manuscript sitting open, before shifting back to the note in his hand. He gives a long sigh. It seems as though he won’t be getting any more work done tonight. He shuffles the papers on his desk into a pile and blows out the candle before leaving the room. 

It’s getting dark by the time he steps onto the battlements. The sun hangs low in the sky, a long strip of reds and oranges and golds that bleed into the cracks between the mountains. The air is just cold enough to bite at the skin of his exposed shoulder where the wind whips at him, and he shivers. It’s always cold here, the sort of miserable weather he’s always hated, and he thinks about conjuring up a fireball before quickly deciding against it -- someone would notice, rumors of his attempt to burn the castle to the ground would inevitably circulate, and then the Inquisitor would have another mess to clean up for him. 

He’s still considering it when he walks into the tavern, a gust of warm air sweeping over him as his senses are assaulted by the usual sounds of music and drinking. There’s a group of chargers in one corner, and he notices Inquisitor Lavellan among them, her face flushed red with exertion as she attempts to arm-wrestle Krem over the top of a table. 

She spots Dorian from across the room, her face lighting up in the same grin she always gets whenever she catches him outside of the rookery. It’s the kind of smile that always makes him want to smile back, and he loves her just a little more for it. The moment’s hesitation is all Krem needs to take advantage of the situation, though, and there’s an uproar of laughter from the chargers as she topples out of her chair, swearing. 

He turns away, sparing one last glance over his shoulder before starting up the stairs. He takes them two at a time, still grasping the note in one hand. There are a few people who look up at him when he makes it onto the second landing, but he pays them no mind.

It’s black as pitch at the top of the steps. There’s an open window a few feet away, but the moon outside stays hidden behind a bank of clouds. He stands there for a moment, squinting, and can just barely make out a figure waiting in the shadows. 

“I thought it might have been you,” Dorian says. 

“Well, it was sort of obvious, wasn't it?” Sera replies with a shrug. “The ribbon was red. You know, red as in Jenny?”

She’s sitting cross-legged on the railing, one leg folded under her and the other swinging back and forth over the edge. The position looks so haphazard that it almost seems as if she could fall backward over the rail at any moment, but Dorian knows she won’t. He’s seen her swinging from ropes and tree branches and ducking under knives aimed straight for her face, watched her open a locked door using nothing but a fingernail. He’s seen her jump from the tallest tower in the castle and still manage to land on her feet.

“Are you going to tell me why you sent this, at least?” He tosses the scrap of paper at her; she catches it, unrolls it and snickers. “Or attempted to maim me, as it were.”

“Oh, right.” Her expression becomes sober in an instant, the smile and all of her laugh lines evaporating into thin air. It’s so disconcerting that Dorian takes a step back. His heel hits a solid surface behind him, one of a few crates stacked in the corner, and he sits down on one of them. 

“It’s like this,” she says seriously. “I’m planning a kind of operation. Ish. Thing. It’s about the Herald. Well, her and Commander Cullen, anyway, and I figure that you’re sort of pals with both of them, so maybe you can help me along with it.” 

Dorian frowns at her. “You have a plan, then.” 

Sera nods. “Yes.” 

He gives something that’s halfway between a laugh and a snort. “I’m afraid I’m probably going to need a bit more to go on than that.” 

She scowls. “Fine. If you must know, I have a big fat crush on our Lady Inquisitor, and I think that she fancies the Commander. Which doesn’t really make that much sense, considering that she’s real and normal and he’s stiffer than those practice dummies in the courtyard, but far be it from me to judge her ladyship’s personal tastes.” 

She scrunches her nose up to say the last words, her face twisted up in obvious dislike. Her tone is joking, but Dorian can see the way her hands curl into fists at her sides, looking as if she wants to hit something. Someone, he supposes now.

“How do you know that it’s Cullen she’s interested in?” he asks her. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“I’ve seen the way she looks at him,” she says, and now her voice is smaller, pained somehow, as though she can hardly stand the thought of it, and Maker help him, he actually feels sorry for her. “I’m with her and he’s always hanging around, and she’s taking his advice and laughing at the things he says, even when they aren’t funny. And he’s  _ not  _ funny.”

Her face slides into a different expression then, eyes turning down at the corners a bit. “She likes me, too, though. I know she does. She listens to me, really listens. There’s something soft in it, and it isn’t there when she’s talking to Commander Piss Face.”

Dorian stares at her, resists the urge to laugh. “So, this plan of yours--”

“It’s not a very good one,” she tells him gloomily. “But I have to do  _ something,  _ don’t I? Look, here’s what I think. The Commander only has one thing going for him -- besides that tall, blond, brooding, handsome look of his, if that's what you like -- and that’s his dignity. His confidence. He’s got loads of that. And if he didn’t, maybe he would just be average, and I’d have a chance.” 

“I see.” He leans back, crossing one leg over the other. “And where do I fit into this equation?” 

“We,” she grins at him, “You and me,  _ we _ just have to make him as unattractive as possible, in a lot of ways that I haven’t thought of yet. I have some ideas, though. Good ones.”

“And you thought that I would be willing to help with this because…” he trails off weakly. 

“--because of the bees, yeah,” Sera says. 

He makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, but doesn’t argue. He’d been the first to voice his distaste for the small, buzzing creatures on one of their excursions to the Storm Coast, when Sera had lobbed an entire jar of them at a group of bandits. Lavellan had just laughed and asked her how she’d managed to catch them. It will be the last time Dorian tells her  _ anything.  _

“Fine,” he replies after a long moment. 

“Yes!” Sera whoops, leaping down from the railing to do a little dance. She spins around twice before sobering up, and sticks her hand out. “Let’s shake on it.”

Dorian makes a face, half-expecting her to spit into it, before extending his own arm and taking her hand as delicately as the vice grip she seizes it with will allow him to. She smiles at him, genuine and ridiculously happy, all teeth and red cheeks and freckles. 

“Partners,” she says, and Dorian groans. 

-

He wakes up later than usual the next morning to the bright noon light streaming in through the window. He stretches, blinking lazily for a few moments, before remembering the events of the previous night, and abruptly, his morning shatters.

He gets dressed in a hurry before tucking the enormous dragon manuscript under his arm and heading up to the rookery, intent on getting a few hours of reading in before all hell breaks loose. It’s where he usually spends his time, but he doubts that Sera will go looking for him there -- to be honest, until yesterday, he didn’t even know for certain that she  _ could  _ read -- and so he’s sitting in his favorite chair, completely not expecting it when her head pokes through the open window and she crawls in. 

Dorian very nearly jumps in shock as she lands nimbly in front of him, but the book in his hands  _ is  _ centuries old, and he just barely restrains himself.

“Do you mind?” he snaps at her, closing the book gently and crossing the small space to slide it onto the highest shelf on one of the bookcases, safely out of her reach. Sera pretends not to have heard him.

“If you like reading so much, read this,” she says. Dorian watches as she reaches deep into her shirt, pulls out a wadded-up piece of paper, and thrusts it at him. 

“And just what is it,” he says irritably as he opens the paper and attempts to smooth out the wrinkles, “that I’m supposed to be reading?”

“It’s a letter,” Sera says proudly, as if this is the very best idea she’s ever had. “Full of nasty, terrible stuff. I’m going to sign it from Cullen, and then I’m going to have someone deliver it to Lavellan. It’s going to make her so angry, she’ll definitely hate him once she’s read it.”

Dorian’s eyes scan quickly over the paper. Her handwriting is hardly legible, and she seems to have a knack for misspelling even the simplest of words. He hands it back to her a moment later with a withered expression. “It’s not going to work,” he tells her. 

“What?” Sera frowns. “Why not?” 

“Because Commander Cullen doesn’t use the word  _ arseface _ ,” he says. “He especially wouldn’t call the Inquisitor one. Also, you misspelled  _ Cullen. _ ” 

She peers down at the note as he says the words, grimaces when he crumples it up again and passes it back to her. “Everyone’s a critic,” she mutters.

“You’re going about it the wrong way,” he tells her. “He’s hardly going to send her a memo expressing his hatred for her. If you're going to forge a letter, you should write one to  _ him _ . Pretend to be some poor woman from Kirkwall claiming he’s fathered her child. Or the lover of a knight that he murdered in cold blood. Or his  _ wife _ , I don't know. You’d be surprised how quickly the prospect of adultery can kill a budding romance.” 

Sera nods slowly, like she’s just come to some startling realization and is trying to work it out for herself. “You know, that’s not half-bad. I guess even you can come up with a few good tricks now and again.” 

Dorian rolls his eyes. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Right, so,” she says excitedly, “maybe, since they’re your ideas and everything, maybe I could pick one of them and you could write it all down for me--”

“No,” he tells her flatly, and heads for the door. 

“Hey!” He cringes at the way her voice echoes loudly against the stone walls, but doesn’t bother turning around. “Where do you think you’re going? We have work to be doing!” 

“I need some air,” he calls over his shoulder as he starts down the stairs. “Helps the creative process, or so I’ve heard.” 

Dorian can still hear her shouting after him downstairs in Solas’ study, but the elven mage himself is nowhere to be found. He grits his teeth in frustration and heads for the door, already feeling thoroughly irritated even though his day has only just begun. He’s reaching for the doorknob, intent on taking a stroll along the battlements to try and clear his head, when it suddenly opens and he runs headlong into Commander Cullen.

“Oh!” Cullen exclaims at the same time that Dorian loses his footing, but the other man’s hand darts out to steady him as he starts to fall, and he finds himself wrenched forward before his head can collide with the wall behind him. For a moment neither of them move, standing in the threshold with Cullen’s hand braced against Dorian’s shoulder. 

Belatedly, Dorian looks down at the stack of papers clutched in Cullen’s arms, several of which have gone flying and are now scattered all over the ground. He drops to his knees to gather them, and after a moment, the Commander follows suit.

“Thank you,” he says, still looking a bit dazed. “I’m sorry, Dorian, I didn’t see you standing there. I’m supposed to be meeting Inquisitor Lavellan with these notes on Red Templar activity.” 

“That’s quite alright,” Dorian replies with a tight smile, albeit one that’s a bit forced. “I imagine it goes along with being a necromancer. One with the shadows, something, something.”

He keeps his voice light, but Cullen is looking at him doubtfully. “Are you alright?” he asks him, his expression so sincere that it nearly catches Dorian off guard. “You seem a bit on edge.” 

Dorian feels his mouth twist itself into a wry expression. “On the contrary, Commander, I’ve never been better.”

“If you say so,” Cullen says, but doesn’t press the matter further as he straightens, draws himself back up to his full height. Dorian stands a moment later, passing over the last of the fallen papers. “If it’s anything I can help with, you have only to ask.” 

Cullen smiles at him, warm and genuine, and Dorian feels laughter bubble up in his throat. He left Sera just moments ago, but it seems ridiculous to think of himself somehow plotting this poor man’s demise. He settles for a cough, shaking his head. 

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be off. I have some very pressing matters to attend to far, far away from here.”

“Another time, then.” Cullen gives a curt nod before sweeping past him into the castle, leaving a quickly as he came. The door swings shut behind him, and Dorian is left standing alone in the sunlight, and though it’s considerably warmer than it was the previous night, he feels almost cold.

It’s a curious thing, but he can’t help but notice as he starts walking again that the place on his shoulder where Cullen’s hand gripped him burns. 

-

The tavern is loud and crowded as usual. 

Dorian makes his way over to the bar, glancing about at his surroundings. The Iron Bull is in one corner with his chargers, and Cole is sitting on the ground next to the fireplace, looking up at Maryden as she plays the lute and sings. There are no other familiar faces, though, so he takes a seat at the counter and orders a drink. 

It’s still early in the evening, but he yawns and stretches anyway, rolling his shoulders once and wincing at the cracks. It’s been a long day; hiding from Sera is no easy task. He’s gone all afternoon without eating anything, and there’s a terrible crick in his neck from falling asleep standing up in a broom cupboard off the kitchens. 

Behind him, he hears a scuffle break out amongst the chargers. He turns around to see Cullen pulling open the door to the tavern and walking in -- he neatly steps to the side just in time to avoid the tankard that the Iron Bull has launched at someone else’s head. He doesn’t so much as blink at it, simply walks over to the bar and slides into the seat next to Dorian. 

“Give me something,” he tells the bartender, in the same authoritarian tone of voice he uses to address the council of advisors and order troops into battle. “Anything. I don’t care what.”

“Been one of those days, has it?” Dorian asks him. 

“Something like that,” Cullen replies.

He braces one of his elbows against the counter and leans forward, his head leaning against his hand. A mug of something slides across the counter, and he takes a drink of whatever’s in it, long and deep. Dorian watches the muscles in his throat working as he swallows. 

“Anyway,” Cullen says once he’s finished, “how did it go, the business you were attending to earlier today? You seemed quite, ah, preoccupied.” 

“Oh, that.” Dorian waves a hand dismissively. “As well as can be expected, under the present circumstances. But what about you? How do you fare on your hunt for the elusive Samson?” 

Cullen gives a dry chuckle. “I could easily say the same. We’re making good progress, but it seems that for every group of Red Templars we kill, two more spring up in its place, and Samson nowhere to be found. It’s frustrating, to say the least.”

His expression is grim, fingers curled tight around the tankard, shoulders tense with worry. He runs a hand through the coarse blond hair on the top of his head, with a look that suggests that not even the alcohol is capable of easing his nerves.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up at some point,” Dorian says encouragingly. “After all, if there’s one thing we know about Corypheus, it’s that he’s certainly prone to flashy extravagances. It’s not enough for him to know that we know that he has Samson, he’ll want to dangle him right in front of our noses first. And when he does, you’ll be ready for him.”

Cullen laughs, a real one this time. “I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t complain, of course -- the Inquisitor has been very helpful during all of this. I trust her to see this through.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Dorian grins. “We’re all half-afraid that you’ll worry yourself into an early grave, you know. A shame, really, with a face as handsome as yours. It would do you some good to relax once in a while.” 

Cullen smiles, flushing slightly. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with the concept, but you might just be onto something.” 

Dorian opens his mouth to say something else, but the tavern door opens again, and he looks over his shoulder just as Sera walks in. She spots him immediately across the crowded room, and he sighs, sliding out off of his stool before she can walk over and murder him in front of fifty drunk onlookers.

“Well, Commander, it’s been lovely chatting with you,” he says wearily, “but I’m afraid I must take my leave again. Duty calls.” 

He leaves before Cullen has a chance to reply, crossing the room quickly to where Sera is waiting for him, tapping her foot impatiently. “What were you talking to  _ him  _ for?” she asks him as he approaches, a sour expression on her face. 

Dorian shrugs. “No reason, really.” 

Sera looks skeptical, but doesn’t argue. “I don’t suppose it matters, anyhow. Here, take a look at this, would you?” she asks, pressing a new piece of paper into his hands. “I rewrote it, just like you said. I did all the work, so you’ll make sure it’s all good, alright?” 

“Oh, very well,” he grumbles, stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket.

“Excellent.” She practically beams. “I have the rest all planned out. Meet me in the courtyard, let’s say tomorrow morning?” 

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?” 

“No way I’m telling you. It’s a secret.” She throws him a wink as she starts up the stairs. “Just be there, yeah? You’d better be, or I’ll unleash the bees!” 

“I hate you,” he calls after her. 

She smiles at him. “You keep saying that, and maybe soon I’ll start to believe it.”

-

“Remind me again,” Dorian whispers around a mouthful of leaves, “exactly what it is that we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Hush up,” Sera hisses at him. “I’m trying to listen.”

They’ve been here for what feels like ages, crouching behind a row of ferns, and she still hasn’t told him what they’re up to. It’s early afternoon, the courtyard humming with the usual quiet chatter. 

Sera keeps pushing him down and it’s absolute murder on his lower back, but the buttons on his outfit keep glinting in the sunlight and she doesn’t want either of them to be seen. So Dorian is sitting hunched over on the dirt while Sera peeks out from behind the bush, and he swears that if he has to listen to one more bloody verse of the Chant of Light, he’s very likely going to die.

“The Inquisitor is in a council meeting with her advisors this morning,” she tells him once she’s made sure that the coast is clear, in the tone of voice that suggests she’s never rightly learned how to whisper. “And once it’s over, Cullen will come through here, the way he always does.”

Dorian snorts. “Were you hoping to duel him for the good lady’s hand?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “As soon as he gets here, you’re going to distract him long enough for me to run over to his office and steal the wax stamp he uses to seal envelopes, and something that will help me forge his signature. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Excellent plan,” he says acidly. “A true masterpiece, really. I don’t see what could possibly go wrong.”

She elbows him, a well-aimed swipe that catches him just upside the head. “It’s going to be  _ fine _ , just keep him talking. Bigwigs like him love talking about themselves. So do you, come to think of it.” She rolls her eyes in exaggerated disgust. 

“What is there about me that  _ isn't _ worth talking about?” he quips. The sentiment would probably sound much grander were he not hiding in a bed of shrubbery, he thinks to himself. Sera doesn’t pay him any attention.

He feels more than he sees her give a sudden start next to him a few moments later, and the next thing he knows she’s grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him to his feet. “There he is!” she tells him once he’s upright, and he looks out over the courtyard to where Cullen has stepped out into the sunlight a few yards away. “Come on, move!” 

Dorian wrenches himself away from her, doing a little half-jog across the grass as he goes. It has less to do with any real motivation to catch the Commander than it does to rid himself of her clutches, but his legs propel himself forward all the same. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Sera scamper around the gazebo and out of sight. 

“Cullen,” he calls, and sees the other man look around at the sound of his name until his eyes fall on him. Dorian hurries over to where he’s standing, silently praying that his robes aren’t covered in dirt. “I was hoping that I would catch you,” he says once they’re standing in front of one another.

“Hello, Dorian.” Cullen looks down at him, right hand resting over the left on the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, actually,” Dorian replies. “I believe it was yesterday you told me that if ever I required assistance with anything, you could be of service. I happen to have found myself in such a state.” 

“Alright,” Cullen says pleasantly. “How can I help you?” 

“Well, you know,” Dorian starts, his mind grappling for an idea and seizing hold of one rather unexpectedly. “Ever since the events at the Winter Palace, life around here has become so hopelessly droll. I’m all out of puzzles, you see. I can practically feel my mind going numb.”

A smile quirks at the Commander’s mouth. “The ancient darkspawn trying to kill us isn’t enough to keep you on your toes?”

“Yes, that’s all well and good.” Dorian waves a hand dismissively. “Rather not discreet enough for my delicate sensibilities, however. What do you say to a game of chess?”

Cullen blinks, surprised. “You want to play chess? Right now?” 

“There’s no time like the present,” Dorian says brightly. “Of course, if you’ve too much work to do, I could always fetch someone else. Inquisitor Lavellan is easily persuaded, but I’ve beaten her so many times already, it would hardly be a challenge.”

“Well. . .” Cullen trails off, hesitating between what Dorian can only guess to be the mountain of unfinished paperwork in his office and the prospect of doing almost anything else. “I suppose one game couldn’t hurt,” he says at last.

“Excellent.” Dorian smiles. There’s an empty table and chairs a few feet away, a deserted chess board and scattered pieces sitting on top of it. He mentally congratulates himself on his quick thinking, and leads the way over to it. 

He sits down in one of the chairs and Cullen slides into the seat opposite him, a silence falling over the two of them as they begin to set up the board. There are a few mismatched pieces here and there and his knight is missing a head, but it’s nothing that will prevent them from playing the game. Dorian sneaks a glance up at Cullen as he’s shuffling his pawns into a line, and when he does, the other man is staring at him with an expression he can’t quite place. 

“You have a leaf in your hair,” Cullen says a moment later, as if for clarification. 

Dorian grimaces, cards a hand through the longer hair on the top of his head until a small, green leaf falls into his lap. He picks it up, pinches it between his fingers. “Imagine that,” he says. 

Cullen laughs. It’s not a mocking sound, but a long, low rumble that sends a warm feeling spreading through Dorian’s chest. It makes his fingers stutter as he picks up the kingside bishop and slide it into place. He’s everything that Sera accused him of being, all blond hair and broad shoulders and gentle amber eyes, and Dorian has seen and even had a great many men, but even so, he can’t help but stare. It’s nothing short of absolutely pathetic.

Cullen is white so he makes the first move, and they lapse into a companionable silence as the pawns and knights and castles begin to spread across the board. They go at a leisurely pace and Cullen plays like it’s poetry, his moves planned out steps in advance, always coming out unscathed whenever Dorian puts him into check. 

He’s played against him before, so it’s not really the slaughter it was the first or second times around, but he’s good. It’s infuriating, really, being that before the Inquisition, he hadn’t played since boyhood, but Cullen is a careful sort of person, so Dorian suspects that he was always good at it, anyway. For his part, Dorian plays often, with anyone and everyone who can be coerced. Varric is a terribly sore winner and Cassandra is a sore loser and Vivienne is ruthless even on the best of days, though, so it’s not as often as he would like. 

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Sera lately,” Cullen comments after several minutes, while Dorian is debating with himself on whether or not he should sacrifice one of his bishops to save his only remaining knight.

“Have you been spying on me, Commander?” Dorian raises his eyebrows. “I must say, I’m flattered.”

“It would have been difficult not to notice,” Cullen says defensively. “She was looking all over the castle for you yesterday, and last night in the tavern, I saw the two of you talking. I wasn’t aware you were on such good terms.”

_ Neither was I _ , Dorian wants to tell him, but the image of an entire swarm of bees chasing him all over Skyhold is enough to make him reconsider. “I’m on good terms with a lot of people,” he says instead. “I’m quite charming, you know. I can’t seem to keep them all away.”

He pauses to move his bishop, and when he looks up, Cullen looks as if he’s fighting the urge to laugh at him again. Dorian glares at him, and he barely manages to rearrange his face into a more serious expression. 

“I hear that you’ve been spending more than your fair share of time with someone, yourself,” Dorian says when he doesn’t answer, not a little petulantly. “With our dear Inquisitor, in fact.” 

Cullen looks up from the board, hand hovering in midair over one of his pawns. His eyes are wide with surprise, a slight redness creeping up his neck. He looks caught off guard, as if it were the last thing on earth he expected to hear, and Dorian thinks that perhaps it was. He’s surprised at himself for saying it. 

“Who said that?” Cullen asks, with what could pass for a polite disinterest if he weren’t blushing so fiercely, though Dorian gives him credit for keeping his voice even. 

“No one,” Dorian says with a shrug. “A rumor, that’s all.”

“It isn’t -- we aren’t--” Cullen stammers, looking back down at the board as he finishes his turn. “I respect her immensely, of course. I’ve never met anyone more fit to lead. I finally feel as if I’m going to be able to change something for the better. I would even go as far as to say that we’re friends, but we’re not--”

He looks at Dorian helplessly, and there’s some unwavering emotion in his gaze that almost makes Dorian want to accept what he’s said. He tries to tell himself that he feels sorry for the other man, but there’s something that feels like a knife twisting itself deep in his stomach. He pointedly ignores it, and tries to make his face remember how to smile.

“I believe you,” he lies. “It’s just gossip -- I, of all people, know how they all like to talk.”

Cullen exhales, a long sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t say that so quickly,” Dorian tells him, reaching across the board to move his queen into place direction in front of Cullen’s king, which he’s unwittingly allowed to be backed into a corner in his distraction. “I do believe that’s checkmate.” 

Cullen’s mouth falls open, eyes surveying the board for a moment before a radiant grin breaks out across his face, as if though it’s the very best news he’s heard all day. “Well played, Pavus,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m impressed.” 

Dorian smiles a bit. There’s a sudden flash of movement from just behind Cullen’s ear -- it’s Sera, waving at him from behind one of the nearby stone pillars. She’s grinning widely and holding something small and unfamiliar in one of her hands, looking far too pleased with herself. Dorian sighs, and gets to his feet. 

“As much fun as this all has been, Commander,” he says, “I would hate to keep you from your duties for too long. No doubt enough havoc has already been wrought in your absence.”

“Let them wreak a little more,” Cullen offers. “I assure you, Dorian, I’m quite at my leisure if you’re up for a rematch.”

“Thank you,” Dorian replies tightly, “but I’d better be going. I’m feeling quite refreshed now; I think it only right that I find a way to put my brilliance to good use.” 

He doesn’t know why he finds himself so desperate to get away from him, only that Cullen is looking at him with that terribly earnest expression, and he can’t bear it any longer. It’s absolutely ridiculous, but as he says the words, he half hopes that Cullen will interrupt him and order him to stay, or something equally unlikely. He won’t, of course. The Commander is far too polite to do anything of the sort, even if he were so inclined.

“Alright,” Cullen says, voice impassive. “Later, perhaps.”

Dorian must be imagining the disappointment in his eyes. He gives a small nod before turning on his heel and leaving, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. His legs can’t seem to carry him away fast enough. Sera is waiting for him at the edge of the courtyard, but he can feel Cullen’s eyes still on him, so he cuts through the door to the main hall, knowing that she’ll follow. 

He shuts the door tight behind him, leaning against it for a moment, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He can still see the look on Cullen’s face behind his lids, but he doesn’t regret running. 

What he does wonder is what, if anything, he had been running from. 

-

A few days later, it finally dawns on him. 

The weather’s turned colder, chill winds blowing in from the north. The skies are grey and restless overhead, and Dorian can feel the mood in the castle shift with it, to one that’s tense and irritable. It’s almost imperceptible at first, but after the third time someone snaps at him, he retreats to the rookery for some peace and quiet.

He can see the storm coming before it hits, large, dark storm clouds rolling in over the mountains, and when it does, the entire castle seems to sigh with relief. Dorian sits in his chair for some time, watching the raindrops beat relentlessly against the window panes. At the first crack of thunder, he shuts his book, and heads down to the main hall. 

It’s utterly deserted when he arrives. He makes his way over to the doorway, folding his arms tightly over his chest to keep from shivering. The rain outside is coming down in thick grey sheets, and through it, he can see the outline of someone hurrying up the steps. 

As the figure gets closer, he can see that it’s Cullen. A moment later and he’s inside, soaked to the bone and looking absolutely frozen as he pushes his hair out of his eyes and pauses to catch his breath. He looks up at Dorian, and the smile on his lips is so startling that Dorian has to laugh.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Cullen turns so that he’s looking up at the sky, watching as the water runs down the roofing to cascade down the steps at their feet. “It just came out of nowhere.”

“How very Fereldan of you,” Dorian notes, allowing himself a small smile in return. “You all seem to appreciate any manner of terrible things -- dogs, snow, plaideweave. I’m not surprised.”

There’s another roll of thunder overhead, as if to prove his point. Cullen doesn’t bother with a reply, just stares at him with that same grin on his face, and it’s dark here in the shadow of the double doors, but somehow, looking at him feels like looking at the sun. It’s almost too bright, Dorian thinks, and there’s something strangely intimate about it that makes him want to avert his eyes. 

“You know,” Cullen says idly, “For someone who complains so often, you’ve never made an attempt to leave.” 

Dorian looks away, scratching at the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. He doubts that Cullen meant anything by it, but he feels the same pull in his chest that he always gets when he thinks about what will happen when this is all over -- when it’s finally time for him to return home. 

“It’s complicated,” he murmurs. “Loose ends, and all that.” 

Cullen glances sideways at him. “I don’t mean to say that you  _ should _ leave, of course. You've earned your right to be here as much as anyone else. More, actually, considering the sacrifices you've had to make.”

“What, having to undertake the laborious task of cutting up my own food at dinner?” Dorian snorts indelicately. “Dressing myself every morning?”

“No,” Cullen frowns. “Well, with that outfit, maybe, but I can think of a few others. Namely risking your life for this cause, on more than one occasion.”

He looks almost as if he wants to say more, but seems to decide better of it, presses his lips together into a thin line. Dorian thinks about telling him that he’s wrong, that they’re not the same -- that he’s never been one for heroics, never belonged anywhere, and not even his own family wants him -- but there’s a surprising intensity in Cullen’s expression that suggests that this is something he’s perfectly willing to argue about, and Dorian doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

“Don’t let anyone else hear you saying that,” he tells him dryly. “I’ve no doubt that if and when I do choose to leave, half the castle will let out a sigh of relief.” 

“But that’s absurd,” Cullen says. “You’re no more of a threat to the Inquisition than I am.”

Dorian swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “It hardly matters,” he replies after a long moment. “I’m used to the things they all say about me.”

Cullen doesn’t try to contradict him, or pretend not to know what he’s talking about, the way so many others have done. He only nods slowly, as though he understands. For all Dorian knows, he very well could -- the things he knows about the Commander are few and far between, but he did make it out of Kirkwall, and Dorian supposes that’s enough. 

“I wish you wouldn’t let it discourage you,” Cullen says at last. 

Dorian turns to face him. “Why?”

Cullen shrugs. “I don’t know. I want you to stay.”

He says the words as if they’re the most natural thing in the world, innocently and with no ulterior motive for saying them. Dorian looks at him, and feels his heartbeat stutter in his chest when he does. There are raindrops caught in Cullen’s eyelashes, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

“Thank you,” he says, when he’s recovered. 

Cullen smiles a bit. “Of course.”

Outside, the rain seems to have let up. It’s hardly more than a drizzle now -- Dorian wonders briefly why he didn’t notice. Cullen shifts next to him, and he know that the atmosphere between them has shifted back to what it was before, stark and professional once again.

“I should probably be getting back to work,” he hears Cullen say next to him, watches as he turns to leave. “Good afternoon, Dorian.” 

Dorian nods once. “Commander.”

Cullen brushes past him quickly, and Dorian watches him as he retreats in the direction of the war room until he disappears from view. He’s just started down the front steps when he comes face-to-face with Inquisitor Lavellan, who looks troubled and in a hurry, clutching a small stack of papers tightly to her chest. 

She looks up at him when he stops in front of her, blinking at him a few times, as though she’s been thinking terribly hard about something. “Hello, Dorian,” she greets him distractedly. “Quite the storm just now, wasn’t it?”

“Quite,” he agrees, frowning. “Is something the matter, Inquisitor? You seem distressed.”

“It’s--” she hesitates slightly before shaking her head. “It’s nothing. Well, it’s not nothing, it’s something that I'd rather not be dealing with right now, in fact, but--”

She cuts herself off, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. Dorian frowns. He doesn't think he’s ever seen her this visibly upset over something. “If it’s anything I can help with, I’d be happy to,” he tells her. 

“That's just it. I don't think you can help.” She looks at him and her eyes have gone wide and frightened. “I don't think anyone can.” Her eyes shift to the papers in her hands, and Dorian’s stomach lurches, because he’s seen them before. “I found these in my quarters this morning -- I don't think I was supposed to have, but one of them is from a woman who claims to be from Kirkwall. She has a son, she says, no older than five years, and that Cullen --  _ our _ Cullen,  _ my  _ Cullen -- is the father. The other is from Cullen himself. He refuses to acknowledge that the boy is his, and offers her nothing.”

Her face crumples. “He told me that he had done some things in the past that he wasn’t proud of, but this -- Dorian, how can I trust him after knowing this? If this is true, and he just  _ left _ her there, then he isn’t the person I thought he was. Perhaps his promises to the Inquisition have all been lies as well.”

If Sera were here, he has no doubt that she would be beside herself with glee, but there are real tears shining in the Inquisitor’s eyes. Dorian looks down at her, and feels a deep, heavy sort of ache settle into the cracks of his heart. It’s partly guilt for what he’s done, but he realizes with a start that it’s also jealousy. He ducks his head, ashamed of himself. 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks him, her voice sounding small and broken, and something in Dorian snaps. 

“I think,” he says slowly, “that the Commander is a capable man, and if he had truly wanted to hide this from you, he surely would have done a better job. My guess is that these letters are the work of someone who seeks to weaken the Inquisition from the inside through lies and trickery, and that you and I should think nothing further of it.”

She blinks once at him, as though it’s a possibility she hadn’t considered. “Oh. That’s -- of course you’re right, Dorian. You usually are.” Her face breaks out into a relieved, clumsy sort of smile, and Dorian feels positively wretched. “I’m sure you think me foolish, but thank you.” 

“I think nothing of the sort,” he tells her, forcing himself to smile. “You’re quite welcome.”

There’s a part of him that looks at her and feels a small twinge of hurt because he realizes that they’re not too terribly different, the two of them. They’re just two people who happen to want the same thing, and Dorian has always thought highly of himself, but of course it isn't Lavellan’s fault that Cullen wants her back. This isn’t the first time he’s clashed with another man in terms of sexual preference, a cruel voice whispers bitterly at the back of his mind, and odds are it won’t be the last, either.

He lets her tell him goodbye, watches her leave as she departs for the war room to join the advisors, and when she does, a chasm opens in her wake. She walks into the castle just as Cullen did, and suddenly the two of them are on a side of their own. It’s a place where Dorian can never follow, and he shuts his eyes tight to keep from falling over the edge.

Not knowing what the hell he’s doing still standing here, Dorian turns back to the steps, and moves on.

-

He returns to the rookery later in the evening to retrieve the dragon manuscript before retiring to his quarters to finish some of the work he’s spent the last few days procrastinating. It’s a miracle in itself that he manages to avoid talking to anyone until the next morning, when the door to his room opens with a loud bang and Sera strolls in. She’s carrying a bucket of water in one hand, and what appears to be a half-empty box of eggs in the other.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she says merrily at the sight of him. He’s sitting at his desk, the papers in front of him slightly askew from how violently he’d flinched at her entrance. “I was afraid that I was going to have to use this.” She holds up the bucket and, somewhat awkwardly, mimes throwing it on him with the hand holding the eggs.

“If I wasn’t awake before you came in, I most assuredly am now,” he says, exasperated.

“Just trying to keep you sharp.” She sticks her tongue out at him. The water in the bucket sloshes onto the floor as she kicks the door shut behind her and moves to sit down on his bed. He glances over and thinks about vanishing it, but the use of magic would probably just upset her, and he doesn’t particularly want to have that argument just now.

“So, someone must have ratted on us about the letters,” she tells him once she’s settled. “I saw the two of them talking together this morning, and it didn’t look like she was trying to murder him or anything. Not to worry, though. I’ve got another plan, and phase one is already complete.”

“Ah,” he says. “It wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the eggs, would it?”

She grins. “Look at you, catching on quick. I lifted these from the kitchens this morning. I was just going to go to the top of the rookery and have a bit of fun watching Solas try to dodge them for an hour or two, to get out some of my inner rage, like. But then I was walking along the battlements and I saw Cullen down in the courtyard, and I may have accidentally dropped one on him. And then I may have let go seven or eight more, if you were counting.”

“Well, I’m sure that left him feeling properly humiliated,” he says sardonically. Sera cackles. “What’s your next course of action, then?”

“ _ Our _ next course of action,” she reminds him. “His hair was in a right state by the time I was done with him, and you know how he is. The way I see it, we’ve got at least a half hour’s window before he’s done washing the egg out. I’m thinking we break into his office, steal his smallclothes, fly them over the ramparts. Just to show him we mean business, you know.”

“That’s probably worse than any of the other ideas you’ve had to date,” Dorian says weakly. “Fine. I suppose if we get caught, I’ll be wishing I’d chosen the bees, but fine.”

Sera just laughs and tries to kick him, and sends the bucket flying.

-

Breaking into Cullen’s office is actually much easier than Dorian had anticipated. 

The door is unlocked when they arrive, and not a guard in sight. He glances about as he steps through the threshold, the room large and welcoming and empty before him, and imagines Cullen sitting at the huge wooden desk centered in front of the stone wall on the far end of the room. Sera stops just outside the door, and he quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Right, then,” she says, and crosses her arms over her chest, both feet planted firmly on the ground. “I think I’ll stay out here and keep watch while you’re up there doing the hard part. No offense or anything, but I don’t exactly trust you not to leave me up shit creek in case someone comes knocking.”

Dorian gives her a long look. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, yeah?” she shoots back at him. “Frigging try me.”

“So I’m going to be rooting around in another man’s unmentionables  _ alone _ , then.” He closes his eyes, massages his temples with one hand. “Well, I can’t say it’s a situation I’ve never been in, but it is one that would raise a number of questions if I were to get caught.”

“Then don’t get caught,” she supplies helpfully as she reaches for the door handle. “Good luck!”

The door clicks shut behind her, and he can’t be certain, but he’s fairly sure that she’s planning on locking him in until the job is done. He curses under his breath, briefly thinking about throwing himself out the open window to a quick and virtually painless death. Time is wasting, though, so he gives a heavy sigh and starts toward the ladder. The wooden steps creak nervously under the weight of him when he begins to climb. He closes his eyes, and doesn’t look down.

It’s surprisingly cold at the top. The first thing he notices when he opens his eyes is the gaping hole in the ceiling, with the bareness of the room coming in a close second. There’s a double bed taking up most of the space, and next to it, a large barrel serving as a makeshift table. There are also enough loose boards and splintered wood lying about to build another tower half as large as this one, but Cullen doesn’t seem to have made any efforts to remove them. 

The only container in the room capable of storing anything is a large chest off to one side. The latch is broken and the lid slightly ajar, and all of a sudden, and overwhelming curiosity overtakes him. He walks over to it, lifts the lid, and peers inside. 

Its contents, upon further inspection, are relatively ordinary. Letters, a few flannel undershirts, an old book or two. Dorian rummages around for a few moments, is just starting to get bored when his fingers close around a thin, soft piece of fabric, and suddenly he’s holding Cullen’s white cotton smallclothes in one hand, and it’s so profoundly nonsensical that he has to laugh. 

And this is how he finds himself kneeling there on the floor, clutching the undergarments and chuckling like an absolute madman, when he hears the door to Cullen’s office open.

It’s Sera’s voice he’s expecting to hear, shouting for him to hurry up, but it isn’t Sera at all. Cullen is humming something under his breath down below, and Dorian feels something close to panic rising in his chest when he hears his footsteps on the ladder. He has all of three seconds to stuff the underwear back into the chest and slam the lid closed, standing up so fast that he feels a wave of dizziness wash over him. 

He’s still standing there, thinking about Alexius and the allure of time magic and wishing that a rift would open right this minute and swallow him up when Cullen’s head emerges at the top, followed by the rest of him. His hair is damp and he’s not wearing anything, save for a towel wrapped about his waist that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. He notices Dorian before he can get both feet of his feet on the ground, and immediately freezes. Dorian is distantly aware of the feeling of his soul desperately trying to escape from his body.

“Dorian,” Cullen says a moment later. His voice is even, as though they’ve run into each other in the main hall over breakfast, and not here, in the room where he sleeps. “This is a surprise.”

“Yes, well, I was in the neighborhood, you see,” Dorian says inanely, folding his arms over his chest and pointedly looking anywhere but at Cullen, at the droplets of water clinging to his neck and shoulders, his collarbone, at the sparse trail of blond hair that starts just below his navel and continues down across the well-defined muscles of his abdomen, the cut  _ v  _ of his hips. Dorian doesn’t let his eyes wander over the towel hanging loose around his waist, and he definitely does not imagine what he would look like with it off of him. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

Cullen takes a step forward. Inadvertently, Dorian shuffles back, but there’s nothing behind him, and he feels his back hit the wall. “Dorian,” Cullen says, his voice warm and low and  _ why hasn’t he started shouting yet _ , eyes open and searching. “Why are you here?” he asks.

Dorian grits his teeth together and makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat. He looks straight at him, and, not a little meanly, says, “I’m clearly trying to seduce you, Commander, as if it weren’t completely obvious.”

“Alright,” Cullen says easily. “How would you like me?”

He says the words in the same candid, unassuming tone he’s always using, and Dorian feels as though he’s been hit squarely in the chest by a bolt of lightning. He knows that he’s hearing things, that this is all just something out of an elaborate dream he’s having, but he stands there staring and the seconds tick by and he can’t seem to wake up.

“Um,” he says intelligently, his brain finding it difficult to form a single word right now, let alone summon those necessary to string together a sentence.

“Is there a problem?” Cullen says, the very picture of innocence, and Dorian doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry or run away from this room as fast as his legs will carry him.

“But you--” he sputters, trying to wrap his head around the situation, “you can’t -- this isn’t -- you’re not--”

“I’m not what?” Cullen is smiling, and Dorian can only watch, rooted to the spot, as he crosses the room until he’s standing in front of him. They’re inches away from one another now, and Dorian is close enough to smell the soap on his skin, can count the flecks of gold in his eyes. He gulps audibly, his heart in his mouth.

“It’s not me,” he says, frowning. “It’s her. Inquisitor Lavellan. That’s who--”

“Is that what this is about?” Cullen laughs, and Dorian feels something tighten in his chest when he does. Cullen looks at him, light and happy, as if he’s on the brink of something wonderful. “I told you that it wasn’t true,” he says, his expression softening. “It’s not her that I want. I never did.”

Dorian’s breath catches in his throat. “Oh.”

“I suppose I thought you weren’t interested.” Cullen shrugs. “You kept running off in the middle of our conversations. I was hoping that I was wrong.”

Dorian looks at him, really looks at him, and thinks that he’s spent entirely too much of his time running.

He doesn’t say anything, simply steps forward to close the distance between them, and before he can take another Cullen is meeting him halfway. He kisses him slowly, thoroughly, licking long and deep into his mouth, and Dorian presses closer, his hands sliding through Cullen’s wet hair, over the curves of his shoulder blades, anywhere they can reach. Cullen skims his thumbs up the side of his face, stroking his jawline, his fingers scratching at the short hair behind his ears, and Dorian hums, low and appreciative, in his throat.

His heart is beating like the wings of a caged bird, fluttering wildly in his chest, and Dorian doesn’t realize that he’s trembling until he feels Cullen’s hands on the armor at his shoulder, fingers working deftly at the laces. There are so many of them that he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the juncture behind Dorian’s earlobe, and all of the nervousness leaves his body. He feels heat curling up in its place, as if a solar flare has gone off inside him, and Maker, he  _ wants _ . 

Cullen fumbles with the clasps on his bracers, and they fall to the floor somewhere behind him. A moment later and his chest and shoulders are bared, his upper body armor falling away to join them, and Dorian feels him slide a hand down his body to cup his cock through his breeches at the same time that his mouth finds his shoulder, bites at the exposed skin there. Dorian makes a noise that’s something like a whimper, feeling weak in the knees. Cullen palms at him, just enough friction to make him hazy with lust, too far gone to be ashamed by the way he pushes his hips forward to rut against his hand.

He sneaks a glance up at Cullen, who throws him an infuriatingly lazy smile before he slides his hands up, goes back to undressing him, and Dorian bites his lips to keep himself from groaning. Cullen shifts a bit and the towel slides from his waist and falls to the floor, where it pools at his feet. His hands still their movement on the buckles of Dorian’s trousers, and just like that, he’s standing in front him completely naked, his cock flushed a dark red against the pale skin of his abdomen. Dorian inhales sharply, the only sound in the room now that everything has gone silent. His fingers follow his eyes, trailing down the length of Cullen’s body, and he doesn’t miss the shudder that goes through the Commander when he reaches down and wraps a hand around him, stroking once and then again, more roughly this time. 

Cullen’s hands are clutching at his waist, scrabbling for purchase against what few clothes he hasn’t divested him of, and when Dorian meets his eyes again, his pupils are blown wide and dark. “Go and lie down on the bed,” he breathes, his voice low and ragged. “On your back. Please.”

It isn't an order, the tone Dorian has heard him use with the soldiers in the yard, or even with Lavellan or the other advisors at the war councils he’s listened in on -- it’s a request, rather, as if he’s been wanting this, waiting for it. His lips are parted slightly, his hair gloriously tousled, and Dorian wants to wreck him, wants to lean in and bite his neck and whisper filthy things in his ears, wants to drop to his knees and show him just what it is that he’s been waiting for. 

But Cullen looks so sure of himself, so Dorian does as he’s told. He kisses him again before sliding out of his arms, and makes way over to the bed. The mattress dips when he climbs onto it, the wooden frame creaking a little as he begins to remove the rest of his clothing, and then he’s lying there stark naked on the Commander’s bed, looking up at the ceiling and trying desperately not to reach down and touch himself while he waits for Cullen to join him. He’s hard enough to cut diamonds, and it’s cold in the room with the cracks in the ceiling coupled with the high altitude, but Dorian feels too hot, as if he could crawl right out of his own skin. 

“Cullen,” he says, and a moment later Cullen is there, settling himself between his legs and sliding up his body until he’s straddling him. Dorian surges upward and then they're kissing again, rough and messy and absolutely fucking perfect. He bites at the other man’s lips, traces his tongue over the scar there, and Cullen’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering forward involuntarily. Dorian groans against his mouth, cants his hips up to meet him. His hands are steady on Cullen’s shoulders, and when he rolls his hips a second time, he feels a deep rumble go through him that makes Dorian shiver. 

Cullen draws back a bit, and then he’s got his hand around him, drags it up and swipes his thumb over the tip like he’s done it a hundred times, before trailing lower, down and around until they're pressed to the base of his spine. Dorian opens his eyes -- when did he close them? -- and Cullen is looking at him like he needs permission, as if Dorian isn't already his for the taking. There's a small phial of oil in his other hand, and Dorian exhales sharply because Cullen is looking at him as if he’s something terribly precious, something he’s afraid to break. 

“Can I--” he starts, as chivalrous and considerate as ever. 

“Yes,” Dorian says honestly, and he laughs a little, surprised that he manages to get the word out when he can't even think straight. “Maker,  _ yes _ . Please.”

Cullen smiles at him, real and heart-stoppingly beautiful, and Dorian gives a halfhearted roll of his eyes. There’s a slight pause as Cullen fumbles with the oil until his fingers are coated in it, and Dorian has to close his eyes and force himself to relax when he feel the first of them pressing into him. There’s the familiar tightening feeling in his chest that he gets whenever he’s with someone new, doing this for the first time -- but Cullen goes slow, all the care in the world in his movements, and after a few moments, it passes. 

He has to swallow back a moan when Cullen adds a second finger, sliding in deeper and stretching him, and when he adds a third, he crooks a finger to hit a spot inside him that has Dorian crying out, trying to arch off the bed and bear down on his fingers at the same time. There’s the ghost of a smile on Cullen’s face as he finds it again, angles his fingers a bit and presses against it, over and over again until Dorian’s breathless and panting and clutching at the sheets. It’s only when he’s finally sliding his fingers out of him that Dorian realizes he’s let fly a string of curses, most of them in Tevene, and the sight of Cullen holding back laughter as he slicks up his cock shouldn't be arousing, but he’s learning not to be surprised by much of anything around here anymore.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Cullen says, and shifts so that he’s kneeling on top of the mattress. Dorian wants to laugh at that, wants to tell him that if they were to stop now he might spontaneously combust, but Cullen is pulling at the back of his knees, one hand reaching behind him to hook one of Dorian’s legs over his hip and the other sliding down to grip his arse, and he isn't laughing any longer. Dorian’s mouth is dry as he watches him, his face and shoulders flushed with effort, the muscles in his arms wound tight with tension. He can feel the head of his cock pressed against him, and he swallows hard. He doesn't know that he's ever wanted a man this much in his entire life. 

Cullen takes a deep breath, and then he’s pushing himself in, long and deep and torturously slow, until he’s buried to the hilt inside him. He looks down at Dorian, who nods once, almost imperceptibly, and that seems to be all the go-ahead that Cullen needs, because he pulls out a bit before pushing in again, harder this time, and Dorian’s head falls back against the pillows, his eyes fluttering shut. Cullen sets the pace and Dorian lets him, thrusting deeper into him with every sharp snap of his hips. It’s too much and it isn't enough, and he can't think about anything except how good this feels, except  _ why hasn't this happened sooner _ . He can't help the moans spilling from his lips now, not with Cullen’s hands gripping at his waist hard enough to bruise and his back straining under the pressure as he fucks him. 

He knows that he’s close, can feel the pressure spreading somewhere below his navel, gives a choked gasp when Cullen reaches down to wrap a hand around his cock. His thrusts have become erratic, uncontrolled, and Dorian knows that he’s close, too. Cullen gives a single tug and that's really all it takes, and Dorian comes in his hand, shaking apart with his fingers twisted up in the sheets, knowing without knowing that Cullen will follow. 

He comes back to himself a few minutes later. The first thing he notices when he does is that he’s on his back looking up at the ceiling, and the second is that Cullen is lying on top of him. His legs are tangled up with Dorian’s under the blankets, and he can feel his heart beating, warm and comfortable against his skin. His face is turned toward him, eyes closed, pressed into the space between his neck and shoulders. Dorian has just lifted a hand to brush the hair away from his eyes when he opens them.

For a moment, Dorian is almost afraid that he’s made a terrible mistake, that Cullen will be angry with him, that he never actually woke up this morning and he's still dreaming. But then he smiles, the same as before, the same as he always has, and just like that Dorian can breathe again, because it’s just him -- just Cullen. The sky is blue over the cracks in the ceiling, and it’s chilly up here in the tower, and he’s in bed with a man he might even love, and it’s just Cullen, the same as it’s always been. 

“Stay,” he tells him, and Dorian does.

-

The first thing they see when they walk into the tavern two hours later is Sera, who’s sitting with the Inquisitor at a table in the far corner of the room.

She notices Dorian before Lavellan does, a slow, easy grin spreading over her face as he and Cullen make their way over to where the two of them are sitting. She’s got her feet up on the table, one arm thrown over the Inquisitor’s shoulders, and she doesn't look surprised in the least to see the them holding hands. 

“Well, well, well. Look who made it,” she says, her voice sounding far too idle, at their approach. “We’ve been waiting ‘round here for ages.”

“Glad to see you didn't strain yourself guarding any doors,” Dorian shoots back at her, falling gracefully into the chair on the other side of the table. Lavellan looks as though she's doing her best impression of someone who is absolutely not about to laugh. “You were in on this too, then?” he asks her. 

“Only since just an hour ago,” she admits, and utterly fails to look guilty about it. 

“I don't see what you're on about,” Sera says, her voice not a little smug. “It all worked out in the end. After all, someone had to save you two idiots from yourselves.”

Cullen glances uneasily between the three of them. “Tell me you haven't been scheming again,” he says crossly. 

Dorian leans in, presses a kiss against his temple. “I’ll tell you later,” he says. Lavellan is beaming at the two of them, excited and proud and relieved all at once, while Sera mimes vomiting into her drink.

Cullen still looks suspicious, but he’s smiling. His knee knocks against Dorian’s softly under the table and Dorian pushes back, decides that he likes the way they fit together. He feels Cullen squeeze his fingers, warm and reassuring, and suddenly he feels strong, as though he could fight a high dragon with his hands tied behind his back.

He looks up at the same time that Sera grabs Lavellan by her shirt collar and kisses her full on the mouth, enthusiastically and in full view of everyone in the room. His eyebrows shoot up, and he glances at Cullen, who’s smiling faintly in the chair next to him. 

“I -- you knew about  _ this _ , then?” he sputters.

“I’ll tell you later,” Cullen replies. 

He leans in at the same time that Dorian does, presses their foreheads together and smiles more widely, warm and happy, and Dorian can only think of how terribly lucky he’s been -- how lucky he supposed they both are. 

“So, what's next for the two of you?” Dorian asks them a few minutes later, once they’ve broken apart. 

Sera makes a crude scissoring motion with her hands and Lavellan rolls her eyes, laughs a little and gives a small shrug. “Saving the world, remember?” she says, and everyone laughs with her. 

“Corypheus doesn't stand a chance,” Cullen agrees. 

Sera makes the comment that they should use bees to fight off Corypheus and before anyone can tell her that it’s an awful idea she’s off on a tangent about bees, and Lavellan is laughing and Cullen rolls his eyes and Dorian leans back in his chair, feeling more at peace than he can ever remember being. It should be terrifying that of all places, he should feel at home here -- but this is where he’s meant to be, and he’s warm and hopeful, and he can't find it within himself to be afraid. 

The sun is setting on Thedas, and his future looks bright.

  


**Author's Note:**

> . . . And that's all she wrote. I'm not too sure how I feel about this yet, but I finished it after a month of pain and suffering, and I post finished works, damn it. In any case, thanks for reading!


End file.
